


burnt sugar

by decidingdolan



Series: your words (my songs) [4]
Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: Confessions, M/M, Second Person, what Eamon meant by "always"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Conor's asking you, "What did you mean when you said, 'Always'?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	burnt sugar

 

_It’s still you._  
_It’s still you._

 

_\--Margaret Atwood, Shapechangers in Winter_

 

* * *

 

You were lying flat on his bed, a break from a practice session. He’s there right next to you, arms crossed behind his head. You’re sharing his one pillow, a bit too cramped for two, but proximity to him did the trick.

A question rumbled in your stomach, your head. Shut your eyes for the briefest second, and asked: “What did you mean when you said, ‘Always’?”

He bit his lip. “Always. I meant always. Any time. At your service. Always, the Pat Boone kind.”

You nodded, muttered, “Pulling out the oldies.”

“'s a beautiful song. Don't fault me.” “But always. You're using the definite. Being definite.”

“I am.”

“Because.”

And he sat up while he’s saying this, half-turned to your side of the bed. Eyes on you.

“Because you're my always, Con. Don't you get that? You're the reason I'm at the door when it rings. You're the reason I think of melodies again when I've gotten used to practicing on my own. You're the one other person I interact with on a daily basis other than my Ma, who doesn't have fuzzy ears and a tiny tail. You're...you, Conor. It's frustrating trying to explain. It's hard to understand, even worse to comprehend. And I'm rambling out a series of sentences that are ends in themselves.” A pause. “Probably. You're the cause of all this and you don't ev—“

“I do. Christ, Eamon. That's more words than I've ever—“

“Good. Because I've done a shitty job explaining.”

You swallowed. Shifted close to him, rested your arm on his shoulder. He tilted his head.

“It's the way you look at me when we're practicing. It's those eyes. I can't tell what. You've got some sort of glow. Sweet, like syrup. Sugar. Sweet, but hot. No...don't look at me like that. I meant hot, like the sun in July, heat raining down my back and in my face. I thought it was the air, the room. Maybe the window's locked, maybe I got flustered 'cause I couldn't sing that verse in 'Up' right. But I sat down next to you, front of the piano, and there it was again. My body's funny, all over. Silly. Like someone dipped me in boiling water and left the stove on too long. I'm not saying it's fatal. Physically painful, anything like that. But I suffered. And I wondered, all the time, why it’s with you, and not her. I still talk to you, practice sessions and on the phone and at your door. I watch you with your rabbits, and wish I was Charlotte. Or her sisters. Your hands, on the frets of your guitar. I wanted to know what they feel like - how they’d move on my skin. To be held by you like that and look into your eyes. Yours is a death stare.”

He cocked an eye at you. “Fuck you,” you said.

He laughed. Threw himself back onto the bed, back leaning against the wall and legs stretched out on on your lap.

You went on, undisturbed.

“But how is it that I survive? Every time. That I know, I remember, in my heart, I'd feel that way when I meet your eyes, and I still, stupid Conor—that's why they say I never learn shit in school—still keep wanting you to look at me like that. Every time. I keep wanting to feel that hurt again, the heat. Like an addict. Like a little boy. I forget things. When I'm with you. When lunch is, why I'm playing the same chord twice, or why you're so obsessed with rabbits (He threw the grey stuffed rabbit behind him at you. You ducked, head down, Merlin—because Eamon named every single rabbit. Every one.—ended up on the floor, tail down.) stuff like that.” A breath. “And you say you're shitty at explaining...I've just about botched the whole thing.”

He shook his head, took your hand into his. “Stupid's right. You said. Because goddamn, but that's the most fucking eloquent piece of shit I've ever heard.”

You sat there, staring at his face. Eyes wide, lips stretched.  
  
“So you get it. I mean, parts—of it. The bits I didn't mess up.”

“Everything.”  
“All of it?”  
“Every part. But I'm going to overlook the obvious, because tolerance, hell, love, for rabbits is mandatory if we're going to be together.”  
  
He’s poking your cheek with his finger, and you’d realized then it’s likely a shade of tomato red (both of them).  
  
“You're saying it straight, like that?”  
  
He shrugged. “What other ways are there?”  
  
Silence. And you’re scooping him up in your arms, taking you both down onto the bed.  
  
Found yourself on top, arms on either side of him, and the rabbit boy’s smirking at you from underneath.  
  
“Damn it, Eamon. I never thought it'd be you.”  
  
He reached out, fingers grazing your arm. Chills, and you suddenly wished it were summer, all over again. “You think? I thought I'd be practicing how to ask some girl out by now.”

You grinned at his reply, eyes lost in his pale greens.“And yet.”

“You're it, Con,” he said, “You're my always. I said it to you. Never thought I'd say it to someone else.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck then, bent down and kissed him on the lips. Hard.

“I get it. I feel you,” you were whispering to his lips, “Because I feel the same.”

He smiled. Mussed up your hair.

A frown, on your part.

“Thank God we're on the same page. I thought we'd never get there.”

“What, with your bits—? Maybe never.”

“And yours?” You’d missed his smile. You wished he’d smile more, reveal to the world this lighter side, the Eamon who didn’t carry his family’s burden the whole time, and yet—you longed to keep this Eamon to yourself. “I was going to die laughing.”

You punched his shoulder.

“I poured my heart out to you, Eams. Don't you dare.”

He glanced upwards, pretended to think, “Heart, syrup, sugar. And boiling water. Even the hot sun in July. Did I get that right?”

Your lips met his again, saccharine and burnt flashbacks. He was cinnamon and cigarette smoke, and you’d fallen prey to the taste.

“Shut up. Just. Shut up.” You’re murmuring under your breath, hand palming the front of his chest. Maybe your cheeks were on fire, maybe not. Maybe he was chuckling at you losing your cool (have you ever), maybe not.

“I like you,” he said, hand grabbing the front of your shirt, pulled you in. “A lot. Conor, a lot. Know that.”

And you’re staring right back at him when you replied, “I do, Eamon. I really do.”


End file.
